To Every Purpose
by Merlin Missy
Summary: PC.  Picard goes to France. Post Generations.


For Amy, Sandra, and Jessica, my first sisters in BONC, and  
dedicated to Dad and Morag for "Scaramouche."

This story is set about a week after "Star Trek: Generations." If  
you're looking for an action-adventure-shoot-'em-up story with big  
battles between starships, where the hero presses lots of buttons  
and by an incredible strategy saves the universe, there are some  
delightful stories like that archived elsewhere. This isn't one of  
them. If you want to read about what happens once all the photon  
torpedoes have been fired, when the hero has to return home and by  
an incredible strategy tries to save himself, this story is also  
dedicated to you.

Typical disclaimer about Paramount owning the whole works, and  
typical suck-up to Paramount's lawyers, informing them that I'm  
never gonna get paid for this and that I mean well.

Feel free to pass it along to whomever you think might enjoy it,  
but kindly keep my name and header attached.

* * *

To Every Purpose  
The Brown Chronicle  
A Star Trek: The Next Generation Story  
by Merlin Missy  
Copyright 1995, 2001

* * *

Day 1: Tea for Three

* * *

The water in the tea kettle had nearly boiled away by the time  
Marie remembered it. She ran into the kitchen, pulled it off the  
burner, and scalded her hand when a few drops fell from the steamy  
lid. In the old days, she would have sworn under her breath. She  
stared at the red welts beginning to form, still holding the kettle  
in her left hand. She set it down, walked to the sink and held the  
burn under the stinging cold water. 

She reached above the sink for the tin tea keeper, rooting  
around in the accumulation of packets of special gravies she had  
never tried, and spices she had saved for some special occasion  
which had never materialized. The tea keeper was gone. Tears  
began to form behind her eyes; feeling ridiculous, she told herself  
it was only tea.

She got out a glass, intending to get some juice, when she  
remembered that there was no more juice. She had finished it off  
two days before, and had been meaning to get to the store. If  
she had a replicator in the house, she could just replicate some  
apple juice. Or tea, for that matter. She really had to bring  
the subject up again with ...

She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. She was _not_  
going to cry, dammit!

She slammed the cabinet shut, then heard running water and  
realized that she had not turned the faucet off. With the tap  
stopped, the silence pressed against her. Carefully, she lifted  
the tea kettle and poured out the little water that remained.  
She hung it in its spot over the stove, then opened the  
refrigerator to see if there was anything at all to soothe the  
burning sensation in her throat.

From the top shelf, the tea keeper stared back at her  
accusingly.

The better part of an hour later, she finally had her cup of  
Darjeeling. There was too much sugar in it, and no cream. That  
was another thing she would have to get, if she ever found the  
energy to go to town. She set her cup down on the desk in the  
study, then tried to remember what she had been doing.

She wandered over to the window, and looked out upon the  
side lawn. All the trees were bare, their leaves long since  
swept away by the wind and the persistent efforts of a rake. The  
snows that had been threatening earlier in the week had passed to  
the south, a small piece of good news, anyway. Suddenly,  
vividly, she saw a huge snowstorm, the like of which had never  
been seen in Labarre. It dropped ten feet of snow on the whole  
province. She was stranded in the house for over a month. The  
food would have run out, but the woodpile and the fuel ran out  
first and she froze to death. No one found her until Spring. It  
was a nice fantasy.

Now she remembered. She sat down at Robert's desk, and  
called up the budget on the terminal. The numbers scrawled down  
the screen, as she tried to make sense of them. For the past  
twenty years, she had kept a record of every credit earned by the  
farm, every sou spent at the grocery, even a running tabulation  
of how much the bottles in the cellar increased in value as they  
aged. She had a gift for numbers, had operated a small  
accounting business from her home when she'd first moved to  
Labarre, before ... Before.

Stupid numbers, not adding up right.

If she hired two people to take care of the vines in the  
coming season, that would be so much in wages. But they would  
want paid during the season not afterwards, so if she put the  
rest of the '47 on the market this year, she could have the  
assets available to pay them. She input the figures. The  
screen read:

"ERROR. PLEASE REENTER INFORMATION."

She tried again, with the same problem. The program refused  
to accept her data, and she had written the damned thing! After  
three more tries, she turned it off. It wasn't as though she  
could really keep the farm running, anyway. Maybe she should  
just sign the whole thing over to Jean-Luc and let him deal with  
it. Then she could just leave, pack all her belongings and go  
where there were no grapes, or horses, or barns. A place where  
no one had ever heard of the Picard family, which would be pretty  
damned hard thanks to her somewhat famous brother-in-law.

Jean-Luc entered her mind, the image as he had been the last  
time she'd seen him. Robert had given him a bottle of the '47,  
one of the best vintages yet, and had kissed him on the cheek  
while she and Rene had watched. She wondered what they both  
would have said or done had they known that this was the end,  
that they would never see one another alive again.

Jean-Luc. There was something important about Jean-Luc that  
she should remember. The thought stayed for a moment, flitted  
away like a spark from a fire, was gone. Instead, she turned  
back to thoughts of Rene on that day, was it four years now or  
five? He was small for his age, but of course he would  
eventually grow into his father's build: short, stocky, and  
strong. But it seemed that he wouldn't grow up like his father,  
or go flying starships like his uncle, or do anything, after all.

The trembling, which she had almost managed to control  
today, began to shake her thin frame. She braced herself against  
the desk, and her hand brushed the teacup. Lazily, it glided  
towards the floor, splintering and cracking when it fell. Almost  
in an afterthought, the brown innards splashed her feet with cold  
tea. Wide-eyed, she stared at the shattered porcelain, the tea  
seeping into the carpet, and the tears crept back out from behind  
her eyes and mingled with the slowly spreading stain on the  
floor.

* * *

She cleaned up the spill after the crying spell passed.  
Unless she took it to a good cleaner, the carpet would be  
permanently stained. Her fingers played over the damp fibers.  
According to Robert, the carpet, covered in a single convoluted  
vine in a Celtic knot, had been a present to his grandparents  
from a friend of the family nearly a century previous. It had  
survived his father's childhood as well as his son's, without  
even wearing the pattern. It would have to be fixed. 

She swept the remains of the teacup into her hand, heedless  
of sharp edges, and tossed it into the disposal unit. That made  
two cups from the set gone. She felt the tears again, but held  
them back. There would be enough time for that later. There was  
something that she had to do, but she still could not remember.  
The store? Yes. She had to go to the store because the pantry  
needed to be restocked. Winter was coming on soon. That must be  
it. She went outside without remembering her jacket. The chill  
air stroked her back as she went to get the ground car, and she  
hurried. Something stopped her.

The wind hit her face, trying to nudge it towards the east,  
where the barn had been. She turned away from it; she had  
successfully avoided looking in that direction for days, and no  
breeze was going to change her now. Instead, she stared fixedly  
on the front gates. The gates were important because ... because  
... Because Jean-Luc would be walking through them today. She  
finally remembered; he and a friend would be here at 4 o'clock.  
She glanced to her watch. 2:30. She would have time to get to  
the grocer's, then pick them up in the village square. That  
would keep them from having to walk in the cold.

* * *

The store was hell, and she was damned. She was certain of  
it. People who'd barely given her the time of day before made a  
point to walk up to her and offer their sympathies, their  
condolences, their prayers, their thoughts. Behind their eyes,  
she read "Thank goodness it wasn't _my_ family," and a feeling of  
pity. She wanted to tell them where they could put their  
sympathies, their condolences, their pity. She held her tongue,  
smiled, thanked them, and prayed fervently that no one would tell  
her that her husband and child had gone to a better place. 

All told, she had counted seventeen "I'm so sorry"s, twelve  
"If there's anything I can do"s, four "I just heard"s, but only  
one "They've gone to a better place," and that from Mme. Gescherd  
who was older than God and batty as an old cave.

It wouldn't be quite so bad, if she hadn't heard the gossip  
surrounding her before. An outsider comes to the village and  
almost immediately takes up with the elder brother in one of the  
wealthiest families in the district? Of course it was for love,  
they said, and the child looks just like his father, too, and  
their eyes would look knowingly upon her. Oh yes, she'd heard  
them. She wondered what the rumors said now. Probably that  
she'd finally had her comeuppance. No more strutting through  
town with her chin in the air for that one. Maybe she even  
started that fire herself. It was, after all, a huge estate, and  
Robert owned half of it. Maybe she'd started the fire, but that  
son of hers got caught in it by accident. Served her right.

She could almost hear the whispers as she walked through the  
aisles. The stares touched upon her like the fingers of dirty  
children, picking and examining everything. Yet, when she got  
near to them, all they said was "I'm so sorry. Is there anything  
I can do?" She wanted to scream.

After eternity, she had everything that she thought she  
needed, gave the grocer her credit voucher, and fled the store.  
She threw the bags into the back of the ground car, not really  
caring as the cans hit against one another in a loud cacophony.  
She really needed to look into getting a replicator. That way,  
she'd never have to face anyone in the town again.

She checked the chronometer. 4:15. She had just enough  
time to get to the square before Jean-Luc arrived.

The shuttle and transport station had been carefully  
designed to resemble an old-fashioned railway station. There  
were holos along the walls of all fashions of train engines, from  
coal and steam to atomic powered monorails. The decor was late  
nineteenth/early twentieth century, with wrought iron benches for  
people to wait for their loved ones to come or go. The lights  
along the walls were replicas of gas lamps, but were powered by a  
small reactor, due to the danger of real lamps.

Marie had always loved the station. She sometimes imagined  
herself preparing to go on a long train ride through Europe,  
getting stopped at every border to show her passport, dining with  
figures from history as she looked out at the receding landscape.  
She would really enjoy escaping into the era of steam engines.

Back in the twenty-fourth century, she read the arrival  
schedule. The shuttle from San Francisco should just be  
arriving. She hurried to the gate in time to see the first  
passengers disembark.

Five people got out: both Drs. Nais, no doubt back from yet  
another conference, a Vulcan, and two people she didn't  
recognize, neither of whom looked at all like Jean-Luc. She  
frowned. He _had_ told her today at 4:30.

Then, she saw a shadow at the doorway. Her brother-in-law  
stepped out, followed by a woman she did not know. They looked  
around, appearing lost.

Marie waved her hand, not trusting herself to smile.  
Jean-Luc saw her.

"Marie!" His face filled with emotion, and she read on his  
features that he had considered staying on the shuttle and going  
back to San Francisco so that he wouldn't have to face the coming  
week.

In a moment, he had embraced her and kissed her lightly on  
the cheek.

"Hello, Jean-Luc," was all she could manage. He let go, and  
indicated his friend, a woman in her mid-forties with auburn hair  
pulled back into a ponytail, and the lightest blue eyes Marie had  
ever seen.

"Marie, this is Beverly Crusher, a good friend of mine.  
Beverly, Marie Picard." The woman held out her hand.

"Jean-Luc has told me all about you. It's nice to meet you  
at last." Her smile was genuine, and Marie shook her hand.

"How do you do." The formalities attended to, she went into  
efficiency mode. "If you'll let me help you with your bags, I've  
parked the ground car just outside."

"We just brought a few things," said the woman, Beverly.  
She held a fairly small suitcase, while Jean-Luc carried the same  
duffel he'd brought the last time. Both were dressed  
comfortably, as though they had expected to walk to the farm.

"Well, then. Let's get you home, shall we?" Why did she  
feel so formal? It was as if she spoke to total strangers, which  
Jean-Luc, at least, was certainly not. There were shadows  
between the two of them, with faces she did not want to see right  
now.

Almost in silence, the three of them walked back to the  
transport, with Beverly occasionally making approving comments  
about the decor of the station. Jean-Luc merely smiled at her  
and nodded noncommittally.

Marie glanced from one to the other, a strange suspicion  
growing inside. She'd aired out Jean-Luc's room and the bedroom  
that had once belonged to his parents, which now functioned as a  
very nice guest room. Now she found herself wondering if two  
rooms had been necessary.

"So how was the trip?" asked Marie, as she started the  
ground car with a hum.

"Lovely," he said. "The shuttle route went across Asia, and  
we even had a chance to stop in Manila briefly."

"Really? I've always wanted to travel to the Phillippines,  
just to see the islands." They fell into silence again.

"So when do you have to be back?" Jean-Luc looked back at  
his companion, who wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Sunday. The court-martial begins Monday."

"Court-martial ... " What was he talking about?

He stared out the front window, and spoke as if someone else  
were talking. "It's standard procedure for a court-martial to be  
held when a ship is lost."

Ship? What ... The Enterprise. Now she remembered. The  
ship had been destroyed, with how many hands lost? Seventeen?  
But Jean-Luc had lived and was being punished for outliving his  
vessel. "I see."

Again the quiet. Marie wondered if the trip was ever going  
to end when the turnoff came into sight. They went down the long  
driveway, which in Spring and Summer would be almost enclosed in  
a green tunnel of ancient trees. Jean-Luc looked out to the  
bushes beside them, a sad expression on his face.

Marie parked the ground car in front. "Well, here we are."  
She couldn't figure out why she so wanted to weep. Then she  
remembered the last time Jean-Luc had come home. Rene had run up  
to her, shouting "He's here!" and he had looked so sweet and full  
of life and he was ten ...

She found herself gripping the controls, her knuckles going  
through the most interesting color changes.

"Marie," said Beverly, touching her arm in concern. She  
relaxed minutely.

"Sorry. I was a little lost for a moment. It won't happen  
again." She quickly exited the car and began unloading her  
groceries. The others shared a glance, and gathered their  
belongings.

"Here," said Jean-Luc, "let me help with that." He prepared  
to take one of the bags.

"No! I've got them. You get inside. Go on." She fixed a  
smile on her face that felt like a grimace.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Get along inside with you, now." Without looking  
back at them, she carried the bags straight into the pantry, shut  
the door, dropped the cans, and began trembling all over.

Bloody hell. Every word he said, every gesture he made,  
everything was so much like his brother ... She couldn't face  
him, not for the next four days. There was just no possible way.  
He would have to leave.

He couldn't leave. He was here to help her label and pack  
things, and to decide just what would be done with everything.  
Robert's will had left everything to her to be held in trust for  
Rene, but Jean-Luc was still legal owner of half the property,  
and this was his ancestral home. If Rene had lived, he probably  
would have left everything to him and life would have worked out  
so nicely.

Bloody hell again.

She put the cans on the shelves. It wasn't much, but it  
would last her several weeks on her own. The henhouse would  
provide eggs, and if she gave the people on the next farm a case  
of wine, she would have milk for the next year.

She went upstairs to see how Jean-Luc and his friend had  
settled in. She paused at the guest room, and saw that it was  
indeed occupied, but only by Beverly. She had pulled one dress  
out of her suitcase, and was smoothing it out on the bed.

She noticed her in the doorway. "Oh, Marie. We weren't  
sure where you'd planned on putting me, but Jean-Luc said that it  
was probably here."

She attempted a smile. "This is the right room. It used to  
belong to the boys' parents, but we've been using it as a guest  
room." It was the blue room: the walls, the carpeting,  
everything was done in blending shades of blue. Yvette Picard  
had always loved the color. Marie couldn't help but notice how  
well Beverly seemed to fit in the room. Even the dress she was  
airing was navy blue.

She crossed the room and opened the bluebell-patterned  
shades. The room looked out towards the vines, covered for the  
winter. To Marie, they always looked like old women wrapped in  
shawls against the cold. Old widows. She turned quickly from  
the vines to see the concern back in the other woman's eyes.  
"Where is Jean-Luc?"

"Down the hall in his room, I think."

Just then, they heard him call: "Beverly, you have to see  
this." She went down the hall, Marie close behind, not sure she  
should be following.

Jean-Luc held a wooden contraption that looked as though it  
had been created for the First World War and had not quite  
survived it. He ran a finger gently over the longest beam.

"I made this when I was eight years old." He showed it to  
them proudly. "I haven't seen it for years, though."

Beverly looked at it askance. "What is it?"

"A model aeroplane! I had other models, from helicopters to  
starships, but this was the first one." He looked up, saw Marie.  
"Did you get everything put away all right?"

She nodded, still looking at the ship in his hands. She  
hadn't gotten it out. She was never even in the room, other than  
to dust about once a year. Rene had come in, though, to look at  
the trophies and awards lining the shelves and walls. Perhaps he  
had taken the plane out of whatever shoebox the young Jean-Luc  
had stowed it in so many years before.

* * *

Dinner was quiet. Marie was beginning to think that  
they would spend the next four days in almost total silence. She  
warmed some soup from the previous night, when she had gone and  
made an entire pot, set out three places, and realized only when  
she sat down that she would be the only one there. Now the three  
places were filled. Oddly, the soup tasted better on the second  
day. The bread was good and crusty, and the wine, while not the  
finest vintage, had a decent body. 

They spoke of little things. Louis had been around a great  
deal, even though the Atlantis project was in the final stages.  
No, she hadn't seen his wife lately, and she was beginning to  
wonder if the two of them were getting along. The hens were  
laying well this month; Marie had considered selling the eggs to  
the grocer. The neighbors' cattle were doing well. Two of them  
were going to calve in the next month.

There was no talk of horses, or of barns, or of the empty  
chair which would really have been two the night before.

After dinner, Beverly had offered to take the dishes,  
leaving Marie alone with Jean-Luc. She took another sip of wine,  
and said nothing as she stared out the window.

He cleared his throat. "If you'd like to talk, I'm here. I  
miss them too."

"I know," she whispered. "I'm just not ready yet." She  
felt the tears drip down her face again, streaking the little  
makeup that she had put on that morning. So what. She reached  
for a handkerchief, and held it to her face to blot away the  
saltwater.

He held her shoulders, and her soft tears turned to wracking  
sobs that lasted several minutes. Again.

"I'm sorry. I thought that I had everything together, that  
I could face you without thinking of him, of them, but you're  
just so like him ... " She hiccuped, and he stroked her cheek.

"If you'd like me to leave, it might be easier on everyone  
if I go stay in the village. I can come back when you're ready."

"No," it was an effort to say it, but she knew she had to.  
"The last time you came, I told you that this was your home. It  
still is, now even more than then. Please stay." He nodded,  
then kissed the top of her hair.

"If you change your mind at any time, just tell me. We can  
be gone in minutes."

She tried to smile. "Well, that's one difference between  
you right there. Robert always took forever to get ready for  
anything." He chuckled, and it was nothing like his brother's  
laugh, and things were a little better.

Impulsively, he hugged her.

"We never had a sister. Maman wanted a girl, but they were  
probably wise to quit after just the two of us, considering how  
well we got along. You have been like a sister to me. I want to  
help you any way I can. Just name it, and I'll see that it's  
arranged." He stared out into the night she had been  
contemplating. Orion had just slipped free from the horizon, and  
held his bow at the ready. "I want us to be friends."

She looked outside with him. "We are friends, Jean-Luc  
Picard." She patted his hand, and looked for a star on which to  
pin her wishes as she had when she was much younger and still  
believed in "happily ever after"s.

* * *

Day 2: Dust

* * *

Eggs. Someone was frying eggs. In her half-awake state,  
Beverly was certain that she was at home on Caldos, sleeping in  
late while Nana fried some eggs for her in the kitchen. She was so  
convinced that when she sat up in the huge bed, with the pale blue  
down comforter around her, she wondered who had changed her room. 

Reality crept back in, and she remembered where she was.

Marie must have gone downstairs to start breakfast. She  
should probably go down and help.

She pulled a thick robe around herself, and crept down the  
hallway, only to meet Marie at the top of the stairs looking fully  
as mystified as she felt.

Marie whispered "I thought that perhaps you had gotten up  
early ... "

"You don't think that he's actually ... " Without a word,  
they walked down to the kitchen, only to discover Jean-Luc Picard  
awake, dressed, and quite happily cooking at the stove.

"Good morning, ladies!" he said far too cheerfully for the  
time of day. "Go sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

Having no other recourse, and wondering what had possessed her  
best friend, Beverly sat down. Marie joined her, beginning to look  
more awake as the familiar scent of well-made coffee drifted  
through the room, mingling nicely with what smelled like bacon.

After a few minutes, when her stomach finally realized that  
there was something yummy coming, Beverly called "Do you need any  
help with that?"

Jean-Luc appeared in the doorway with a still-sizzling pan,  
and without a word, deposited a portion of omelette to each plate.  
He disappeared back into the kitchen, then returned balancing a  
coffeepot, a plate of well-drained bacon, and a plate of  
croissants, which he primly set down in front of them.

"Breakfast is served." Marie's eyes were wide at the food,  
which, while simple, was far more than she had expected upon  
waking.

Beverly had been given some very good advice by her  
grandmother when she was young. Never turn down a chance to eat or  
use the bathroom. You never knew when the next opportunity might  
arise. She tasted the omelette and found it to be delicious.

"When did you learn to cook?"

"Years ago, in this kitchen, although not on this stove. When  
Maman wasn't home, it became a matter of learning how or starving."

"What about your father?"

Marie spoke softly: "Maurice's cooking was the stuff of  
legend. I heard a story once about a pot of stew that could be  
turned upside-down without the contents even dripping."

"I _remember_ that stew," he said. "Took us three days to  
clean the pot. That was nothing. Once, Father wanted to make a  
cake for Maman's birthday. That was the reason we had to get a new  
stove. After that, he wasn't allowed to go into the kitchen  
anymore."

It was a pleasant breakfast, a bit more elaborate than Beverly  
had eaten in some time, but good, and filled with more light  
conversation.

She had left the two of them alone after the previous night's  
dinner to talk, puttering about the expansive kitchen and wondering  
what on earth half the utensils were for. When she had heard Marie  
crying in the dining room, common sense had just barely overcome  
compassion, and she had slipped quietly into the living room.  
Marie had needed the shoulder of a friend.

She would have to let her know that she had two friends in the  
house.

* * *

They started in the attic, planning to work their way down.  
The reasoning behind this was something the two Picards would not  
admit and that she would not point out to them. The attic was  
filled with dusty old antiques, some of which hadn't seen the main  
part of the house in a century. There was very little life up in  
the still air, other than the spiders and the occasional mouse.  
There was very little of youth and vigor in old violins and boxes  
of easter clothes worn by someone's great-aunt. The only young  
faces were in old pictures, holos of Maurice and Yvette Picard,  
crumbling pictures of a boy who might have been Maurice's great-  
grandfather, but was probably a friend of the family. The  
only deaths in the chests and boxes happened long before anyone's  
memories could hurt. 

There was little of Robert and Rene in the attic.

Over here, they found an old rocking horse that Rene had  
played with for all of a month when he was three and had promptly  
forgotten. There in the corner was a box of Christmas ornaments  
that put a very nostalgic expression on Jean-Luc's face. They came  
across a comparatively recent box, and with some wonder, Jean-Luc  
pulled out toys he and Robert had played with as children and had  
miraculously not broken.

With great care, he pulled out a bottle, blew off the dust,  
and presented a Promellian battle cruiser for them to admire.

"I'd wondered where this went." He looked inside the bottle,  
seeming to inspect the ship, make sure it was still spaceworthy,  
and Beverly hid a smile.

"Why don't you take it back with you?" suggested Marie.

"I think I ... " He stopped, then set it back in the box gently,  
his eyes hooded.

"What's wrong?"

"I was going to take it back, and put it in my ready room.  
Then I remembered. I no longer have a ready room." He closed the  
box, and marked the contents on the top.

Beverly wanted to say something, but there was really nothing  
to tell him. She helped him move the box.

* * *

They paused for lunch only long enough to carry some  
sandwiches upstairs, and have a very unusual picnic among the  
cobwebs and the sunshine which came down from the skylight to make  
the captured dust particles sparkle. 

By late afternoon, the attic was semi-organized. They now had  
some idea as to what was in it, anyway. There were boxes of  
costume jewelry, old toys, clothes, a wedding dress that might have  
fit someone with Scarlett O'Hara's proportions, at least a hundred  
hats, and a bracelet-sized dog collar with a tag bearing the  
cryptic inscription: "Spike."

The cleaning began. Insects that had been in the attic long  
enough to form new species found themselves being unceremoniously  
tossed out the window. Ancient dust particles flew into the air,  
causing coughing fits and hasty passes with a dust mop.

Working together, the three of them went through two  
containers of polish, an entire box of dust rags, and used the  
services of a mop which had seen better days but gave its all  
nonetheless.

By the time they had finished, it was well past dark and they  
were all filthy. The boxes were labeled and stacked. The few  
things they had uncovered that warranted liberation from the attic  
were piled at the top of the stairs neatly. The place was clean.  
Beverly noticed that there was now far more room for other  
boxes to be stowed away, no doubt filled with clothing and toys  
that would no longer be needed. Here they would sit and quietly  
wait until the next generation of Picards came climbing the stairs  
to look through the past. Then again, Jean-Luc was getting older,  
and had no children, other than a pair lost a thousand years ago on  
a dead world. The next people to go through the attic would  
probably be real estate agents, determining the value of the  
assorted knick-knacks of a family's history. The thought cast a  
gloom inside of her that was not dispelled until well after dinner.

* * *

When the dishes were cleared away, Marie put some water on to  
boil, then brought out tea cups. Her own matched Marie's, but  
Jean-Luc's was obviously from another set, and she wondered what it  
signified. 

They took the tea into the drawing room, where Jean-Luc lit a  
fire after several attempts. They settled into the comfortable  
chairs. Beverly noticed that the other two specifically avoided  
one overstuffed specimen and placed a mental bet with herself that  
it had been Robert's.

Marie spoke first. "I always loved this room. It was nice to  
curl up in front of the fire, watch the hours go by. The first day  
I saw the house, this was the room I stayed in. It was four months  
before I saw another room." She flushed slightly, and took a sip  
of tea. Beverly had an inkling of what the next room might have  
been.

"This was Maman's favorite room. She would let us come in,  
but only if we were quiet, and read, or work puzzles, or something.  
We weren't allowed to raise our voices or run through here, and  
when we got into a fight, this was usually where it ended."

"Now and then, we would have friends over to play cards in  
here, usually Bridge or Gin." She stared at the small table in the  
corner, lost in thought.

Cards. Hmmm. "Would you like to play something?"

"Now?" She looked mildly shocked, then intrigued.

"Why not?" asked Jean-Luc, standing. "It could be fun." They  
could all use something fun, or at least diverting.

They pulled the table out and sat down.

Marie opened a drawer, and took out a deck of cards with a  
flowered pattern on the back, lilies. "All right. What shall we  
play?"

Bridge was out, for obvious reasons, and poker in the drawing  
room would just be wrong. They settled on rummy. Marie dealt the  
first hand, and won.

The games went evenly among the three, and by the time  
an hour had passed, Marie had loosened up enough to laugh. Almost.

She was showing some improvement, but whether she was actually  
dealing with her grief or just pushing it aside, Beverly could not  
tell. She soon found it difficult to see her as the same woman who  
had gone to pieces in the dining room the night before. Beverly  
kept quiet, observing her reactions, and making a few mental notes,  
especially when she referred to her husband in the present tense,  
but her son not at all.

The teapot kept steaming, and with the added caffeine, they  
did not turn in until nearly two o'clock in the morning.

Beverly readied herself for bed, brushing her hair until it  
floated about her head in a cloud, then smoothing it down again.  
She pulled the covers back, turned out the light, and crawled into  
bed.

She couldn't sleep. Although she had been sipping tea all  
night, her mouth was dry. Cursing softly, she went downstairs for  
a glass of water, trying to be quiet.

On her way back to her room, she passed Marie's closed door  
and heard her crying, very softly. She glanced down the hall to  
Jean-Luc's room, and saw the light under his door wink out. She  
waited outside the door, debating with herself whether she should  
knock.

She knocked.

"Yes?" came the quiet voice from the other side.

"It's me. May I come in?" There was a long pause, and she  
feared that she'd overstepped her boundaries as guest.

The door opened slightly, and Marie peeked out, her eyes puffy  
around the edges. "Do you need something?" she asked, her voice  
shaking and she trying not to show it.

"No, but I thought you might."

"I'm fine. Really." She smiled, but it was vacant.

"Of course you are. But sometimes it helps to talk about it,  
and I know what it can do if you don't."

Marie wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Jean-Luc  
didn't tell me you were a psychologist."

"I'm not. I'm a medical doctor." Marie's eyes grew wide.

"Listen, I don't know why he thought that you needed to come,  
but I don't need a doctor. My husband is dead. I can live with  
it."

This was going to be harder than she thought.

"I don't know why, either. Maybe it's because I'm his best  
friend. Maybe it's because I was married to his best friend. I  
don't know."

Marie must have heard something in her tone. "Was?"

She took a deep, calming breath. "I know what you're going  
through, because my husband died, too."

Marie met her gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." She opened  
the door. "Please. Come in."

She nodded, and stepped inside what had been Robert and  
Marie's bedroom for nearly twenty years. It was about the same  
size as the other bedrooms, done in deep rose and mauve. There was  
something wrong, something off-center. The room looked completely  
occupied, with all of Robert's things exactly as they should be  
were he alive. Warning bells went off in Beverly's mind as she sat  
on the edge of the bed, obviously made for two.

Marie, rubbing her hands absently, walked over to the window  
and back twice before she finally perched herself on the bed.

"It's like he's still here. I keep looking out the window  
expecting him to be walking through the fields, and I'm terrified  
that I might actually see him. This place is haunted, you know."  
"Haunted?" She had had enough experience with ghosts, thank  
you very much.

Marie nodded. "Sometimes, you can hear them walking around up  
in the attic, or downstairs having tea in the drawing room. They  
all speak French, and they have parties sometimes. I've heard the  
music. Once, Rene told me that he'd seen a woman in an old-  
fashioned dress going up the stairs, and when he ran up after her,  
she was nowhere to be seen." She stood up again, crossed to the  
window, looked out, and came back. Her eyes were wide with fear  
and loneliness.

"I suppose someday someone will see a woman walking up the  
stairs being chased by a little boy." She began to tremble.

Beverly slipped her arms around her shoulders. "Let it out.  
It's the best thing you can do for him."

Marie practically collapsed onto her bed. "I remember when he  
was eight, and he was running through the house with a cup for me,  
and he fell. The cup broke and he cut his head and I was so afraid  
he'd given himself a concussion that I yelled at him ... " The  
words poured out from her, from the depths of her soul. Memories  
came out, and Beverly sat and listened.

When the torrent of tears and stories stopped for a moment,  
she told her own story. She told Marie about meeting Jack for the  
first time, about when she had found out that she was pregnant with  
still a semester to complete in school, about her second, much  
shorter pregnancy, about how Jack had been scheduled to come home  
to spend six months with her and Wesley and the new baby who had  
been born far too early, about the look on Jean-Luc's face as he  
told her that Jack was never coming home. She told Marie about how  
she'd felt, about falling apart one piece at a time, with her  
friends the only thing between her and madness. She downplayed  
Wesley's part, realizing that it might prove too painful for the  
other woman, who didn't even have her child to hold.

They talked for hours, until the sky lightened, and the sun  
peered over the horizon just out of sight. As the day began, the  
dark expression that had been on Marie's face began to lessen.

Knowing what was ahead, Beverly told her the truth, that the  
pain would never go away completely, but that it was bearable, and  
would eventually fade to a dull ache around the heart at holidays  
and anniversaries and the occasional dark night.

"Do you still think about him?"

"Every day. But I've found that in the past several years,  
the memories that resurface the most are the good ones. We had  
some happy times together, and those days are the ones I choose to  
remember." Marie smiled then, a real smile.

"I'll have to try that."

Out in the hallway, they heard a door open, and they both  
jumped, then laughed. Obviously, Jean-Luc had rejoined the land of  
the living. They both stood and stretched, then walked down the  
stairs in a companionable silence.

Jean-Luc had just put on a pot of water. He looked drawn and  
bleary-eyed as he looked from one to the other. "You've been up  
all night, haven't you?"

They nodded in unison, and went about the business of finding  
something interesting for breakfast. They settled on oatmeal with  
cream and coffee, because it looked easy.

Beverly set the table, keeping an eye on Marie. She appeared  
to be doing better now. She would be hurting for a long time, but  
Beverly was willing to bet that she would survive it. Jean-Luc  
brought the kettle in and filled the bowls. The three of them took  
hands and stayed quiet for a moment, as sunlight streamed in from  
the other end of the room and across the table. Breakfast was  
good.

* * *

Day 3: Faces

* * *

Jean-Luc didn't know how they had managed to stay up all night  
and still be more awake then he was. He had seen Beverly do it  
before: wait up with someone's colicky baby, or keep a vigil over  
a critically ill patient, only to show up at breakfast with a smile  
and a hearty appetite. He hadn't known Marie was also adept at it. 

Whatever they had talked about, it appeared to have done Marie  
some good. She seemed to breathe much easier than before, and her  
smile wasn't nearly so forced as it had been. He made a note to  
thank Beverly when he got the chance.

* * *

They decided to hit the downstairs next and leave the bedrooms  
for last. He caught the look that Beverly gave him, but she did  
not say a word. He was fairly sure that she understood why neither  
of them wanted to clean out Robert's and Rene's personal belongings  
until they absolutely had to. It would be like admitting that they  
were gone, and he couldn't do that just yet. 

The ground floor was fairly easy. Marie had been there every  
day for years, and knew what went where. Other than a touch-up  
with the dust rags, and a nice polish for the floor, the place was  
already clean.

While looking for the floor polisher, he found his father's  
fencing foil in the back of a closet. Robert had never been one  
for the genteel sports, choosing rugby over fencing and horseback  
riding. He had just put the heirloom away.

Jean-Luc drew out the blade, almost absently stroked his thumb  
against the button. Beverly came up behind him.

"What on earth ... "

"My father's. He won champion standing in school one year  
with this foil. He told me about the duel dozens of times."

He went into en garde, and fenced an imaginary partner.  
Thrust, lunge, parry four, riposte, parry six, withdraw. It was  
all one motion to him. The hilt actually fit his hand better than  
his own foil, lost in the wreckage of the Enterprise.

Beverly clapped. "I've always wanted to learn how to do that,  
but I never got to it."

"Come here, and I'll show you." He motioned her over.  
"First, you have to center yourself. You don't want to be caught  
off-balance." He demonstrated the foot positioning, and she copied  
him, her feet in a stretched out t-shape, knees slightly bent.

"Good. Now hold your left arm up in a sky hook and relax it.  
That will help balance you." She did. He took her right arm, held  
it out, and placed the foil in her hand.

"You have to hold it a certain way for it to fit right." He  
rotated the hilt. "See how that rubs the wrong way?" She nodded.  
He put it right again, so that it fit snug against her hand. "Keep  
it steady, but don't hold it too tightly. Your hand will cramp.  
Hold it as if it were a bird: tight enough to keep it there, but  
loose enough that you don't choke it. Arm out, elbow almost  
straight but not locked, keep the button up in your opponent's  
nose. Very good." He stepped back. "How do you feel?"

"Like my arm is about to fall off."

"Right or left?"

"Yes."

"Relax your left arm. Don't let it tense." He mirrored her  
position beside her, stretching out his left arm and visualizing a  
foil in his hand. "Now, straighten your elbow, and twist your  
wrist so that your thumb points up. That's called thrust. Now,  
watch my feet, and do this." He lunged, and she made a passable  
copy of his movements. "Good."

He heard applause from behind, and turned his head (not an  
easy task in lunge position) to see Marie standing in the doorway  
trying her damnedest not to laugh at them.

"Well then," he said, immediately breaking position and trying  
to control the flush that was threatening his cheeks. "That's  
enough for one lesson, I think." He set about wiping the blade and  
ignoring their matching looks of amusement.

* * *

After lunch, he and Marie took the ground car into the village  
to speak with the family's attorney. Beverly bowed out, electing  
to stay back at the farm to wander around the grounds a bit and  
maybe find something nice for them for dinner. He suspected that  
she really wanted to give him some time alone with Marie, for which  
he was grateful. 

The trip was uneventful. Marie talked idly of plans she and  
Robert had made about their future life, places they had meant to  
go, things of that nature. Jean-Luc listened, offering a few of  
his own memories to her. They arrived at the lawyer's office in a  
fairly tranquil mood.

The attorney had done her homework. She had read Robert's  
will, had looked into old deeds, had found a copy of Maurice and  
Yvette Picard's will, and most importantly, had read historical  
cases dealing with French law and property inheritance.

She explained to the two Picards in as little legalese as  
possible her interpretations of the available documents. Either  
they now owned the holdings, properties, and titles of the Picard  
estate jointly, or the entire shebang belonged to him. She read  
down a list of investments, bonds, and land in places neither of  
them had even heard of.

Marie looked shocked. "I've been in charge of the family  
finances for over two decades. Why have I never even heard of  
these assets?"

"It was entirely likely that Mr. Picard never knew about them,  
either. Many of these funds haven't been touched since his  
grandfather's day, and several of them belonged to his grandmother,  
to be held in trust for one Adele Picard, whom I believe has now been  
missing for long enough to be presumed dead."

Aunt Adele? He hadn't seen her since the day of his father's  
funeral. She had always been his favorite relative, with her home  
remedies for everything and her stories of the places she'd gone,  
along with enticing tidbits about places she shouldn't have gone.  
She'd always been the wandering kind He had assumed that she had  
just wandered too far one day, and forgotten the way home. Aunt  
Adele dead? He wouldn't believe it.

They worked out an agreement. It wasn't perfect, but it would  
be satisfactory for the time being. Some of the holdings would be  
liquidated in order to hire workers in the Spring. Marie would  
oversee them, and would stay on at the house to do so. She could  
live there for the rest of her life if she so chose. Jean-Luc  
would hold the titles in his name. If he died without children,  
everything reverted to Marie, other than a tidy sum that he placed  
aside for "someone else" whom he would not name at the time. If  
Marie died first, or remarried and chose to leave the vineyards,  
Jean-Luc would officially own everything, and probably leave the  
majority to the unnamed heir.

The attorney drew up the papers, shook their hands, and  
escorted them out past the large black German Shepherd sleeping  
quietly in the corner.

* * *

He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Beverly could  
cook even without a replicator. Dinner waited for them, piping hot  
on the table: a giant pot of vegetable stew ala Howard. She had  
once told him about it, although perhaps "told" wasn't the right  
word. Her description had barely done it merit. If Felisa  
Howard's medicines tasted half as good as her soup, it was a small  
wonder that she had been the most sought-after physician on Caldos. 

Marie retired soon after dinner, claiming extreme fatigue.  
She wished them a good night and went to bed.

Despite the long night, Beverly wasn't tired yet, and neither  
was he. He found the rest of the wine they had started at dinner  
the night they had arrived, poured two glasses, and took them into  
the drawing room, where a small fire had been carefully banked all  
day. With a little coaxing, it became bright enough to see by.  
Beverly turned down the lights and sat on the couch, his mother's  
favorite as he recalled. After a moment, he joined her and they  
watched the fire.

"I think she's going to be okay," she said finally.

"Marie?" She nodded. He had been letting the wine affect  
him, and his mind had wandered. "I think you're right. I wanted  
to thank you."

"For what?"

"For making her smile. For whatever the two of you talked  
about last night that let her free." He pulled a bit of her hair  
back behind her ear. "She needed it."

"You're welcome. Chalk one up to hanging around Deanna for  
far too long." He grinned, and she smiled. Suddenly, he was aware  
of his hand at her neck, at how close she was, and the wine and the  
firelight and the smoke in her eyes mixed inside of him.

He bent near to her, and placed a soft, chaste kiss on her  
cheek. She looked at him, not quite startled.

"What was that for?" she whispered. The fire popped and  
crackled.

"You looked as though you could use one." She smiled again,  
shyly this time, and he could see again the woman he had met  
nearly a quarter of a century before.

"You're right." She leaned over, and touched her lips against  
his, gently but with a promise of more. Warmth washed through him  
as he returned the kiss, tasting her parting mouth.

His hands moved from her neck to her shoulders as he felt her  
hands snake around his waist to the tail of his shirt and then to  
the bare skin of his lower back. They shifted position a little to  
avoid falling off the couch, and now his lips were happily engaged  
in nibbling at her jaw while a small part of his mind asked just  
where in the hell was this going and meanwhile a much larger part  
declared just exactly where it intended this to go, adding quite a  
bit of detail in the process that was doing nothing whatsoever for  
his self-control.

He opened his eyes to try and steady himself, catch his  
breath. He was so afraid of rushing her, of possibly even hurting  
her in his eagerness. He watched her flushed face, his heart  
filled with joy, for her lips curved gently, and her eyes were  
half-lidded and inviting.

He leaned to her again to taste her kisses, breathe in her  
scent, when his eye happened upon a picture on the mantlepiece.  
Robert and Marie and Rene, all smiling and touched with a joy of  
their own. He froze.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice making an effort to  
change from desire to concern. Her slight smile faded completely  
as he sat up and pulled away from her. "Jean-Luc?"

He turned to her, tried to meet her eyes, but could not. He  
stood, whispered "I'm sorry," and fled. He did not see her watch  
him leave, shock upon her face, nor did he see her turn back to  
face the fire after several minutes had passed to watch the wood  
crackle and burn and die in flame.

* * *

Outside, the night air bit into him, and he realized that he  
had no jacket. It didn't matter anyway. The cold wasn't so  
terrible. He walked westward. 

The old faces followed him in his mind, tagging along even  
when he quickened his pace and finally broke into a run such as he  
had not taken since his Academy days. His lungs ached, but his  
heart beat on steadily, as he ran down the side of one field like  
he had in his youth. The pale moon streamed on him, its crescent  
winking at him knowingly as he topped a hill and had to stop. The  
faces caught up with him.

Robert as a young man, teasing and testing him; Rene, younger,  
filled with light and promise; Tasha lying far too still on the  
biobed, her face marked with Armus' cruel touch; Walker strumming  
lightly on his mandolin, and singing just slightly off-tune in his  
quarters; Vigo refusing to leave his post although the terminal  
burned his hands; Jack in his EV suit, putting on his helmet and  
telling him that everything would be just fine.

They were only the first faces of thousands. Locutus had seen  
the faces of at least seventy of his victims, and he had since  
looked up hundreds of the others. Their faces haunted him, and now  
the two newest faces stared at him from flames, asking him how he  
could possibly be thinking of his own happiness with their bones  
still cooling in the earth.

He caught his wind, then ran again, cutting through a path in  
the fields and heading north. His feet trod the ground as though  
they had done this but yesterday, and knew the way as they did  
around his quarters on his broken, lost ship. He ran past the  
shrouded vines, and as one they turned to stare at them with their  
old-women's faces, accusing him of crimes long past which he could  
never rectify. He'd always hated the covered vines.

Why? his spirit cried, Why did they have to die and leave me  
here? and his mind could not answer and that was all. The vines  
shook their fingers at him in the night-breeze, telling him he was  
being selfish, but he did not care. A deep anger burned within him  
now, anger at Robert for dying, at himself for not having been  
there when it happened, at the universe for letting a boy die  
before he had a chance to live. His lungs cried for more air,  
forcing him to stop again. He bent low, his head in his hands, and  
allowed the pain to come, knowing he could not hide it away any  
longer.

The faces were upon him.

* * *

After a long time, he was aware of being cold. His sweat had  
dried upon him in the bitter air, chilling him deeply. He rubbed  
his arms, and for a moment thought longingly of being in someone  
else's warm embrace, a very certain someone who was no doubt  
extremely upset with him right about now. He could not make his  
feet move in the proper direction to go to her. Instead, they  
turned to the right, and began walking east of the house. 

Right then, he wanted to talk with Beverly, to tell her  
everything, and apologize profusely. She, however, was no doubt  
inside and asleep already, and he had done more than enough to her  
for one night. He still longed for a walking companion, and his  
mind provided one, as it often had when he had hard decisions to  
make and could trust no other. Usually, he would think of Jack,  
looking as young and ingenuous and alive as ever. In his thoughts,  
Jack would speak to him, enumerating the positives and negatives of  
whatever Picard was considering. He knew that it was only his own  
ideas, that Jack could never again be his confidante in this  
lifetime, but sometimes it felt good to pretend, if only for a few  
minutes, that he was still there.

Tonight, with the turmoil he was currently facing, Jack was  
not the ideal companion for a talk. Walker appeared before him,  
almost anyway, and much as he had the last time they'd seen one  
another on Dytallix B, just before Walker's death.

Hello, Jean-Luc, came the voice in his memories. You seem to  
have a problem.

I don't have a problem, Walker. I have 11,000 problems.

I see, said the Walker in his head, and tilted his face  
forward in a gesture Picard knew very well. We've been dipping  
into the well of guilt again, haven't we?

What do you mean? That was the one thing he hated about  
conversations in his head, and the reason he had them at all. They  
tended to place before him unpleasant truths.

Look at you. You find the least bit of joy in your life, and  
immediately you run away. Because you're not worthy of it. You've  
done all these terrible things, watched all of us die, and you  
think yourself the worst person who's ever lived because you  
managed to live through it and we didn't.

It's more than that! I see them clearly, every one: you,  
Jack, Tasha, and now Robert and Rene, and all I can think is that  
I brought this to you all.

Bull.

Picard stopped dead in his tracks, and stared where Walker  
would have been had he actually been there and not scattered  
through a far away sector of space.

Jean-Luc, you're afraid.

Of what?

Of yourself. Of life. Of allowing yourself to be happy. And  
you are absolutely terrified of Beverly.

Walker ...

You are. You are so afraid of her that you can't think  
straight when she's around anymore. "Hold it as if it were a  
bird?"

That's standard fencing training, and it's very good advice,  
I'll have you know.

I know. I also know what you were thinking at the time, and  
what you _wanted_ her to hold like a bird. Walker grinned  
lecherously.

Picard began walking again. Maybe he shouldn't have tried  
this after all.

Jean-Luc, you can't walk away from your own mind. All right,  
you feel guilty. You weren't there when they died. I'll concede  
the point.

His footsteps faltered. Without thinking, he had reached the  
barn, or at least where the barn had been. Burned timbers lay in  
a haphazard fashion over the foundation. Ashes still heaped around  
the site. He shuddered when his foot brushed against a small pile,  
and although he knew that the bodies of his brother and nephew had  
been recovered and were resting in the family plot down the road,  
he still wondered morbidly if everything had been removed. He saw  
something glisten by the pile, and knew it to be his own tears.

Jean-Luc, whispered the Walker-image, his voice increasingly  
like Jack's as he spoke. Maybe you _could_ have done something.  
Maybe you could have asked the Nexus to bring you out here in time  
to save them and your beloved ship. Maybe you could have come out  
even earlier, before you left for Starfleet, and spent the years  
making good with Robert and your father, watching Rene grow up,  
maybe even marrying Elise and having those children you saw. You  
would have been home in time to make it all right, to save each one  
of us from death. But you didn't.

You asked to be returned in time to prevent Soran from killing  
millions of innocent people, people you didn't even know. You  
sacrificed your happiness and sleep-filled nights to save children  
you had never seen from a greater fire than this. "Macbeth hath  
murdered sleep." Picard hath murdered eleven thousand, and saved  
230 million.

Walker gestured behind them, to the accusing old vines.  
They're right. You _are_ being selfish. You're taking all the  
guilt you can find and wrapping yourself away in it, and you're  
keeping yourself apart from everyone. Your selfishness is taking  
away happiness from the one person in the universe whom you most  
want to see happy.

You can't change the past, Jean-Luc. No one can, except maybe  
Q. You aren't Q, and you aren't God. You're Jean-Luc Picard, and  
for better or worse, you are the last of your family. But only by  
your own choice.

Walker was gone from his mind. He stood alone in the ruins of  
what had once been a large barn, full of horses and sweet smelling  
alfalfa and barn rats and barn cats and a long rope swing. It was  
all gone now. The nipping wind stirred the ashes at his feet,  
swirled them into a tiny cloud that drifted towards the vines where  
it settled after a time to become part of the soil blanket over the  
sleeping roots.

* * *

He walked back to the house alone, thinking of Q. Q had  
offered him a chance to change his past once, only to show him how  
the tapestry of his life would unravel if he did. Six months ago,  
he had done it again. In a game that would have made Charles  
Dickens proud, Q acted in the stead of the Ghosts of Christmas  
Past, Present, _and_ Future. 

In the past, he had so wanted to change things, wanted to make  
them right from the beginning of his tour on the Enterprise-D.  
He planned to avoid Vagra 2 at all costs, to expose the conspiracy  
in Starfleet Command before Walker ever had a chance to even  
discover it, to improve everything in preparation for the Borg, to  
spend more time with the people who were now his only family. He  
had planned to do it all, and the ship in the past had been  
destroyed.

Q had also shown him a vision of the future: himself addled by  
a devastating disease, the others scattered and squabbling, Deanna  
cold in her tomb on Betazed ... He had kept the memories fresh in  
his mind, so that he would not forget, and could make that right,  
too. Will and Worf were already working on staying friends no  
matter how hard, in fear of what they could become instead. They  
had all gone out of their ways to keep Deanna from harm. Geordi,  
meanwhile, had restarted a failing correspondence with Leah Brahms.

He walked up the stairs slowly, treading carefully on the less  
squeaky ones and thinking of the Beverly he had met in the future.  
She'd still been as lovely as a warm Summer afternoon, but there  
were more lines around her mouth, as if she had grown accustomed to  
frowning in recent years. The future self that had been him knew  
that he had caused the frowns, and had regretted it deeply.

As he paused outside her closed door, he wondered if that  
wasn't his biggest fear. He had seen the ruins of their marriage  
in her face, and had been filled with terror.

He loved her. He knew that he could never have stopped loving  
her, wanting her, no matter what he convinced himself. His  
excuses, thought of only during the depths of the forgiving night,  
rang in his ears: She's Jack's widow. She's your CMO. She's  
eighteen years your junior, for the sake of Kolker! The words rang  
hollowly now. Only one question really mattered.

You've seen your future together, thanks to Q. Do you have  
the courage to live it?

He gently turned the doorknob, so as not to wake her. He  
needn't have bothered.

She sat in the large bay window, her knees drawn against her  
like a child's, her robe gathered around her. She stared out into  
the covered fields, and did not turn when he entered.

"Tell me something," she whispered, the profile of her face  
pale in the light of the crescent moon. "Is it me? Is there  
something in me that makes you go cold whenever we even touch?"  
She looked towards him, and something glittered down her cheek, was  
gone.

"No." He closed the door behind him and sat next to her in  
the window. "There's something in me." He wanted to take her  
hand, but he couldn't. Not yet. "Every time I see you, part of me  
sees the young woman who married my best friend." She turned away.  
He thought the mention of Jack had touched an old wound. He was  
quite wrong.

"When will you stop seeing me like that?" Her whisper was  
fierce. "I loved Jack. I still do. But he's gone, and I've  
accepted that. When are you going to let him die,  
too?" He couldn't answer. He wanted to tell her about the past  
and the future and not being able to change a word of it.

An image from his childhood entered his mind. He'd gone with  
his parents to see a production of "A Christmas Carol," and it had  
touched him, deeply enough to suggest it to a friend years later as  
a key to seeking out the mysteries of emotion. In an instant, he  
saw Scrooge before him, begging the silent Spirit for some sign.  
Scrooge had not been able to change his past, had watched the woman  
he'd loved walk out of his life. Now Scrooge wanted to know if the  
future could be diverted from its destined course, only _he_ was  
Scrooge, and the Spirit's hidden face was the enigmatic visage of Q.

"Beverly ... " he whispered, taking her hand.

"Marie asked me something last night that I couldn't answer.  
Why _did_ you invite me here?"

How could he answer that? Honestly. "I have lost everything  
and everyone that I've loved in my life, except for one. I asked  
you here because ... " Just say it, Jean-Luc, whispered Walker's  
voice in his ear. "Because I'm terrified that if I turn my back  
for a moment, you'll be gone forever, too." He placed his hand on  
hers. "I may be very selfish, but I can't stand the thought of  
losing the only person left in the universe that I love."

Delicately, he raised her hand and kissed her knuckles, his  
eyes locked on hers. The face of the future Beverly, momentarily  
transformed with joy when she saw him for the first time standing  
on her Bridge. The face of the past Beverly, smiling as she shook  
his hand after they were introduced. The face of the Beverly from  
a not so distant past, staring at him from across an impassable  
force barrier on Kesprytt, her hiddenmost thoughts finally bare to  
him. Faces surrounded him again.

Scrooge's voice, his own, echoed " ... change these shadows by  
an altered life!" Her face before his now, outlined in moonlight  
and more beautiful than he could ever remember. Smiling.

There in the window, their faces moved closer, frightened and  
joyful, to press their lips together.

* * *

Outside in the night, the vines kept their dreamless winter  
slumber beneath snug blankets, waiting patiently for the new life  
that would come to them when Spring returned. Not even they  
noticed when the two forms in the window moved away from it and  
slipped beneath a warm comforter of their own.

* * *

Day 4: Boxes

* * *

She was aware of warmth beside her. Her eyes opened slowly,  
and in the musky darkness, she saw him watching her, a rare smile  
on his face. 

"Hi," she said, shyly.

"Hi," he said, and kissed her nose, and laughed.

"Penny." He tilted his head, confused, but only for a moment.

"I was thinking about Deanna."

She decided to play along. She crossed her arms in front of  
her chest, and said in her best schoolmarm's voice: "Oh _really_?"

He nodded. "I was wondering what she would say about the  
psychological significance of this situation."

"That being?"

"I fall in love with someone, wait over twenty years until I  
have the courage to make love to her, then end up in my parents'  
bed. That has to be worth a complex or two."

She laughed. His beautiful eyes held a shine of laughter, as  
well as something more.

She kissed him softly. "What the hell. I've always wondered  
about people who read psychological nuances into everything." He  
kissed her back, and soon they were entwined again, ending and  
beginning with each other.

* * *

Marie had finished breakfast some time before they came  
downstairs. If she had noticed that only one door other than her  
own had been closed all night, she did not say. However, Beverly  
caught a glance from her as she looked in on them from the living  
room. There was no envy on her face, no anger, merely a sort of  
wistfulness she remembered well from her own days as a young widow,  
spending time with her married friends. That, too, would pass  
someday.

* * *

It was late morning when they started on Robert's and Rene's  
belongings. They began in Rene's room, boxing clothes from the  
summer, and then his more recent clothing. The boxes would be put  
away in the attic, to be kept for another young man who could wear  
them. Crying now and then, Marie and Jean-Luc packed away papers,  
books, ribbons and toys. Jean-Luc spent several minutes staring at  
a model starship that bore an amazing resemblance to the  
Enterprise. Marie told him to keep it with him, so that he could  
always have something near. He thanked her, and placed it away in  
his room, reverence on his face. 

Marie decided to keep the pictures where they were. The  
bedspread was left on, in case she should get visitors. When the  
last thing that would be packed away was placed in the box, Marie  
sat down on the bed and looked around her.

"He's really gone, isn't he?" Beverly nodded, tears forming  
in her own eyes. Jean-Luc touched Marie's shoulder, offering  
strength if she chose to take it.

She merely sat, staring at the nightstand where she had left  
a ribbon won by her son for a paper about starships. After a long  
time, she walked out of the room without a word. Jean-Luc and  
Beverly followed her, watching silently as she shut the door.

* * *

Robert's possessions went into another box. There were more  
clothes, some of which Marie tried up against Jean-Luc, and  
insisted that he keep. Mostly, they were packed away. Personal  
documents and papers went into a file for Marie to peruse before  
either keeping them, throwing them out, or giving them to the  
family's attorney. Robert was not a great collector of trinkets;  
most of the items in the house had either been purchased by Marie  
or been there for longer than conscious memory; his box was mostly  
clothing. 

When both boxes were full, the three of them carted them up to  
the attic, where they would remain, perhaps for years. It was next  
to impossible to get old clothing to the places that needed it  
most, and usually when the need was seen, something could be  
replicated. Perhaps the clothes would be brought out again someday  
as curiosities, relics from a past no one remembered.

* * *

It was still early afternoon when they finished. The fear of  
the job had been worse than the actual task, for which Beverly at  
least was grateful. She and Jean-Luc were to meet the shuttle just  
past noon the following day, and they had barely visited with  
Marie. 

When they finished, Jean-Luc took the ground car into the  
village, not saying where he was going or why. He kissed Beverly  
on the cheek, and whispered that he was getting a surprise, then  
was out the door before she could find out what it was.

She and Marie sat in the drawing room for a while, watching  
the fire and talking. Marie reminisced about her wedding day, and  
Beverly listened, laughing here and there.

" ... and it went everywhere! Took us a month to get the  
stain out of the blanket. Rule to the wise: never have wedding  
cake for breakfast in bed."

She remembered that she had an album up in her room, and  
walked up to get it. Beverly stretched a moment, and wondered  
where Jean-Luc had gone. Then, she heard a hum in the driveway.  
The ground car!

Marie was still upstairs, probably had not even heard it.  
Beverly grinned, deviltry in her. She readjusted her top, a loose-  
fitting blue sweater that Wesley had given her for her birthday one  
year, in a far more suggestive manner. She put the lights low,  
then crouched near the door, preparing to pounce on Jean-Luc when  
he walked in the door.

The bell rang. Jean-Luc wouldn't have rung the bell.  
Cautiously, she opened the door to reveal a man she had never seen  
before. He was tall, thin, and looked good-natured enough.

"Hello?" she said, uncertainly.

"Ummm... Hello. Is Marie here?" He looked as surprised to  
see her there as she was to see him.

"She's upstairs. Marie!" she called. The breeze blew through  
the door, and she was suddenly aware of her sweater. She tried to  
casually readjust it as Marie came down the stairs.

"Louis! Come in." So this was Jean-Luc's best friend from  
goodness knows when. "Louis, meet Beverly. Beverly, Louis." She  
held out her hand automatically, which he took and kissed politely.  
With the slightest discomfiture, she noticed his quick glance to  
her left hand, which had borne no ring for nearly two decades.

"A pleasure, madam." His eyes glittered.

"Come sit down. Jean-Luc went into town, but he should be  
home soon. I hope." They went back to the drawing room, Beverly  
wondering about this strange man who showed up to see poor alone  
Marie. She hoped Jean-Luc would hurry home.

* * *

By the time Jean-Luc returned, an hour later, Beverly's fears  
had been set to rest. Louis turned out to be absolutely charming,  
and utterly safe. He delighted her with tales of himself and Jean-  
Luc as boys, causing as much trouble as possible and claiming  
innocence to their unbelieving parents. Marie seemed comfortable  
in his presence, even giggling, and Beverly found herself wondering  
after a while if perhaps Marie were considering something she  
shouldn't. Beverly certainly couldn't talk about someone having a  
nice little affair, but she knew damned well what bounce-back  
relationships could do to one's self-esteem later. 

Jean-Luc came home, bearing a rather large box, which she  
scolded him for trying to carry on his own. He made Marie open it,  
to reveal a top of the line Robel Replicator.

She gasped, then held her hand over her mouth and rocked back  
and forth, almost trembling but not quite.

"I knew that you had wanted one of these in the house, and I  
thought that now might be a good time to install one." She nodded,  
still not speaking. Beverly placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Marie, are you okay?"

"I ... I'm fine. I was just thinking that Robert is probably  
turning over in his grave right about now." She looked up at Jean-  
Luc, tears on the verge, but not coming this time. "I suppose he  
can use the exercise."

* * *

Among the four of them, and with some unhelpful advice from  
the owner's manual, they managed to have it running by nine o'clock  
that evening. In honor of the occasion, Marie invited Louis to  
stay, and call his wife over. However, he bowed out, much to  
Beverly's disappointment, she was surprised to note. Jean-Luc  
walked Louis out to the ground car while Marie tried to figure out  
how to order a cup of tea with the right amount of sugar and cream. 

Beverly went to the door, meaning to watch Louis leave.  
Instead, she accidentally overheard a snatch of conversation  
between the two. Louis made a comment about his wife's decision to  
let him have the house if she could have the ground car and this  
and that. Marie had been right about their marriage being on rocky  
ground.

Beverly sighed, and quietly left the doorway. It wasn't any  
of her business. Sometimes, she wondered if she and Jack would  
have stayed together, or if they would have parted ways after a few  
years. She could never come up with a good answer.

What about Jean-Luc? Was there any way she could make things  
work with him? After the previous night, they could never be "just  
friends" again. She hoped it would become "friends and ... " but  
she worried inside. He had told her about what he had seen for  
their future: marriage, followed by an unpleasant divorce. She  
wasn't sure she liked that vision of the future.

Then, the ground car hummed, and Jean-Luc was inside again and  
since Marie was still in the kitchen, they indulged in a satisfying  
soul-touching kiss that lasted a good three minutes without pause  
for air, and she had no more fears.

* * *

Dinner was simple; Marie had programmed the replicator to make  
basic items like milk and cheese and tea, but she still had to work  
on more complicated things. They brought the food beside the fire,  
and ate and talked well into the night. 

Marie finally retired at about midnight. Beverly, still a  
little unsure, talked with Jean-Luc until nearly one. Almost  
shyly, they walked up the stairs together, now and then brushing  
against one another. When they reached her room, Beverly stepped  
inside, but Jean-Luc did not follow.

She turned around. "What is it?"

"Are you sure you want me to come in?" His tone was light,  
but there was some fear in his eyes, returned from before. So he  
had seen her discomfort after Louis left.

It was time to end this game they kept playing. She took his  
hand. "If you don't, we're going to have a lot to explain to Marie  
in the morning when she finds us in the hallway."

He came in and quietly closed the door.

* * *

Day 5: East

* * *

Marie awoke feeling lonely. She missed her husband's warmth  
beside her. She missed the sound of Rene trying to sneak down the  
stairs without making them squeak. She was going to miss Jean-Luc  
and Beverly when they left. 

She got up, walked slowly to the mirror, and brushed out her  
long, fair hair. Robert had always loved to see it down at night,  
to run his fingers through its length. Despondence nearly set in  
again, and she went into the hallway to leave his ghost behind in  
their room.

Then she saw the other doors down the hall. Rooms, set aside  
for guests or studies, were locked for the time being. Rene's room  
was closed, but not locked. The same went for the door to the  
attic. She noticed that Jean-Luc's room was open, but that the  
door to the old master bedroom was closed. She was quite certain  
that Jean-Luc's bed had not been slept in the past two nights.

As she went downstairs, she had a sudden sense of things being  
closer to the way they ought to be.

The large house needed to be filled with the sounds of  
children running down the hallway, with dogs barking and cats  
purring, and lovers sharing secret, silent glances that everyone  
else saw clearly. The house needed life. Robert and Rene could no  
longer bring life to it, but she could, if she chose to remarry and  
have another child, and Jean-Luc could, if he did not allow the  
wonderful woman sleeping beside him to slip away.

She went to the replicator and ordered some tea. It delivered  
it within seconds, made just the way she liked.

She sipped her tea, and glanced outside to see the covered  
vines. The coverings did not look so much like old shawls now, she  
thought. They looked like baby blankets. So far, all the Picards  
born to the family in the past century or so had been conceived in  
that house. It was time for one or two more.

* * *

They went to church, not out of devotion or desire, but for  
the chance to see other people from the village one more time.  
Marie did not look forward to the experience. The memory of the  
grocer's was still fresh; the people with their lying eyes and  
meaningless sympathy frightened her more than she wished to say.  
Jean-Luc hadn't been to the place in some time, though, and the  
family plot was in the church's cemetery. He convinced her to go.  
She didn't want to disappoint him, or to just drop them off. She  
wore a simple black dress, Beverly the dark blue dress she had  
brought, and Jean-Luc a dark suit. 

As they went in, several people approached them, some shy and  
awkward, some somber. This man had often talked to Robert over the  
fence in the fields and had thought him a "nice curmudgeon;" that  
girl had gone to school with Rene, and one day he had shared his  
lunch with her when she'd forgotten; this woman had worked in the  
village with the shipping company patronized by the vineyard, and  
would miss Mssr. Picard; over there was a boy who'd been on Rene's  
soccer team. They came in dribs and drabs, much as they had before  
the funeral, but this time they did not offer casseroles and  
gelatins, but instead kind words for two of their own who had not  
quite beaten Fate. Even Mme. Gescherd was tolerable, although she  
seemed to think it had been Maurice who had died with Robert.

They finally entered the church, making a somber party of  
three near the front, but they sang the hymns together and the  
music was lovely.

Afterwards, they walked to the family plot in the cemetery.  
Marie had not been there to see the headstones set; she couldn't  
face it then alone. Now, with a dear friend to either side, she  
read the names out loud, the dates she knew too well, and the  
inscriptions.

For Rene, she had chosen something in Standard: "To see a  
world in a grain of sand/And Heaven in a wildflower/Hold Infinity  
in the palm of your hand/And Eternity in an hour." She'd always  
loved Blake, and the poem had been one she'd read to Rene when he  
was still sleeping in a crib in their room.

For her husband, she'd chosen a quote by Victor Hugo: "The  
supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved." It  
had felt ... right.

They stayed in the graveyard for about an hour, reading over  
names and dates of family members. Jean-Luc could virtually trace  
his family tree by the grave markers. Together, they read  
inscriptions of love, of duty, of truth, of laughter, some  
mystifying ("Here lies 'Disco' Dan with a Metro pass and a spray  
paint can."), some heartbreaking ("Sleep, My Beloved; I'll Join You  
Soon," read on the grave of a young woman, with a grave of a young  
man who died not a month later beside her).

Noon came and went, and then they had to get to the shuttle  
station. The bags were already in the ground car, so Marie drove  
them directly there.

With still a half-hour to go, the three of them grabbed a  
quick lunch at a new fast-food restaurant nearby, which served very  
interesting Klingon food with a twist.

Jean-Luc hazarded the Kentucky-fried gagh, while Beverly  
inspected the bregit lung on a bun. Marie wasn't so certain about  
the menu, but finally decided on the tibius claw sticks. She was  
pleasantly surprised. She made a note to try Cafe Qo'noS again the  
next time she came into town. Which would be soon.

The time had come for departure. Marie walked them through  
the hall, past the pictures of times forever gone, to the shuttle,  
then hugged Beverly tight.

"Now remember, whenever you'd like to come visit, just drop  
in. You'll always be welcome."

"Take care, Marie. If you ever need anything, or just want to  
talk, call me. No matter where I am, I'll listen." They hugged  
again, then Beverly boarded the shuttle, leaving her alone with  
Jean-Luc.

They embraced, and held to each other for a long minute.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for everything."

"Thank _you_," he replied. He kissed her cheek gently. "Be  
good to yourself. I'll write you soon." He turned away.

"Jean-Luc ... "

"Yes?"

"I have one request." He nodded. "When the two of you  
finally marry, invite me to the wedding."

He smiled sheepishly. "Of course."

"Good luck." The court-martial started tomorrow. Somehow  
though, she thought things would work out right for him.

He waved, then offered her the Vulcan sign of greeting and  
parting. He entered the shuttle, and was gone.

* * *

She went back to the cemetery, to look through the headstones  
again. Beside the graves for Maurice and Yvette Picard, she saw  
the marker for Adele Picard. No body had ever been found, of  
course, but Robert had ordered a small monument to mark where she  
would have lain, and had chosen a strange inscription that he said  
fit her well. With the sun behind her, dipping gently towards the  
horizon, Marie faced the east, and read to herself words she had  
known from childhood. 

A time to be born and a time to die. A time to sow and a time  
to reap. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to weep and  
a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to  
embrace. A time to refrain from embracing. A time for love. A  
time for hate.

A time of war.

A time of peace.

* * *

The End

* * *


End file.
